Love.

Flowers of heaven, passionate andpure,Upon this bed the youthful often lie,And pressing hard upon its sweetdelight,The cruel thorns piece soul and heart,and cause a woeful blight.

Death
.

A traveller who has always heardThat on this journey he some day mustgo,Yet shudders now, when at the fatalwordHe starts upon the lonesome, drearyway,The past, a page of joy and woe,--the future, none can say.

Faith

Blind clinging to a stern, stone cross,Or it may be of frailer make;Eyes shut, ears closed to earth's dreardross,Immovable, serene, the world awayFrom thoughts--the mind uncaringfor another day.